


in the night the snow starts falling.

by moralorelfan



Category: Moral Orel
Genre: Child Abuse, Drinking, F/M, Sexual Abuse, mentions of child abuse, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moralorelfan/pseuds/moralorelfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was cold, yes, and Jesus was doubtlessly shaking a disappointed finger at her from His heavenly perch, but this was a present that had to be delivered.// Christina Posabule breaks a rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the night the snow starts falling.

**Author's Note:**

> *screams softly* I've posted about it forever, but now I'm FINALLY writing my "christina finding out orel got shot" idea that's kept me awake screaming softly for weeks now. I decided to set it on that sucky Christmas (well, quasi-sucky since danielle made it pretty special for orel until clay sucked it up with his whiny patheticness) just to make it even sadder ahaha. anyway: child abuse/neglect.

_"But you still have two minutes! And I have faith in you…"_

.

.

"Did you have a nice Christmas, Christina?"

The kindling crackled voraciously and the flames that had once upon a time seemed so inviting and hospitable vomited patches of bloody firelight on the opposite wall. And her father, king of all he surveyed, was hunched forward with the question extended like the invitation of a stranger behind the wheel of a windowless van; his hand, road-mapped with veins thick as pulleys, strangled a tumbler of peppermint schnapps. Its scent was like being chloroformed with a candy cane.

She smiled demurely. "Yes, Daddy."

"'Ya get everything you wanted?"

Her gift, opened dutifully that morning under her father's scrutinizing gaze, had been a pink sweater knitted by her mother. It was a lovely garment; to fully articulate her appreciation, she had swapped her jumper for it and worn it to Christmas service. "Y-Yes, Daddy."

His mouth contorted itself into what might have been a grin, but, when paired with the whiskey-glow of wicked merriment in his eyes, was more of a vulpine smirk. A tatter of pink yarn was curled in his free hand. From afar, the shred resembled a rather large, irrefutably dead, worm. "That's good, Christina. I like it when your happy."

Her stomach flipped artfully. There was an unmistakable lilt in his voice, half-buried by drunkenness, but there nonetheless. It was the lilt she imagined good Christian men saved for their good Christian wives when it was time to fulfill God's wishes and put a good Christian child on Earth.

Some quiet, yet persistent voice in her head tried to make a case for her father. _He has to be a good Christian man. He goes to church and prays and he means it… isn't that good enough for God?_

"You know why it… ya know why I ripped up your sweater?"

A dull blush crept up her neck. "Yes, Daddy."

"Tell me why."

Hot shame torched her cheeks and silenced the voice in her head. "Because… it made me look pretty. And good girls, they… they don't try to look pretty. It makes men look at them and makes them impure."

He took a deep swig from his tumbler, gorge rippling visibly with the effort. When he finished, he tossed the shred of fabric onto the rug separating them. A knothole in the fireplace's timber poppled like a spray of bullets; she flinched and crossed her legs protectively. "Good girl. Good girl. Now, come on over and-and give your dad a kiss goodnight."

Relief swept over her like an ocean wave at high tide, sapping her tense body of its strength. Shaking, Christina Posabule hoisted herself out of the armchair and crossed the length of the feverishly bright study. Her father was waiting, still smiling his vulpine smile.

Christina ghosted her lips past the scruff-smattered territory dividing his cheek and mouth. Her gut twisted in revulsion and her ears rang, but he was too drunk to perform any of his nighttime rituals, which called for another swell of relief. As a precaution, she prefaced her exit with a soft "good night, Daddy".

"Yeah… yeah. Good night, Christmas."

It was a noble attempt. "Christmas" and "Christina" were awfully similar, after all.

.

.

Christina brushed her teeth and said her prayers (taking care to evade the topic of her father when it came time to speak directly to God), but she did not change into her nightgown. Instead, she pulled on her woolen stockings and shrugged on her favorite lilac sweater. It, unlike the sweater her father had destroyed, was too lumpy to be considered provocative.

Her fingers drifted absently to the golden cross hanging from her neck by its reliable chain and squeezed. Jesus had a plan for her. No suffering was unjustified by the Lord.

Comforted, she put on her thickest skirt. She considered also collecting her mittens and toboggan, then decided to wait until her parents retired to bed. That would be a half hour or so: her mother still had to tidy up from the day's festivities and her father would doubtlessly want to nurse another shot or two before shuffling into the bedroom.

Christina went to her window, which was only an inch or two above ground level and revealed little more than an intimate view of the bushes and the passing cars. She gazed out at the gentle, lacey cascade of snow silently frosting the distant rooftops, feeling much more content than any thirteen-year-old girl who had just experienced what was probably the worst Christmas ever had any right to be. It was not the majesty of God's nature or the milky cadence of Christmas lights that had brought her such bliss. These sights were, of course, highly appreciated, but they were not the culprit behind her unconscious smile.

Christina was about to break a rule.

She had never broken a rule. Disrespecting the wishes of her parents and elders was like an affront to God Himself and Christina feared the consequences of affronting God. More than feared: it occasionally kept her awake at night.

But she had since resolved that her rule-breaking was justified. She had hashed it out politely with God a few nights ago, making her case and allowing him to translate his verdict via her father. When Christina escaped a night in the study unscathed, she knew God had decided it was okay to break this rule. To thank him, Christina had spent the better part of the next day on her knees, hands clasped gratefully.

A little thrill fluttered in her chest. She glanced at her desk and giggled at the sight of the meticulously-wrapped box.

Christina never lied—it was a sin. When her father had asked if she had had a nice Christmas, she had said "yes". There were still four hours left of the holiday and she knew, deep in her heart, that this Christmas would be more than nice. It would be the best Christmas ever.

.

.

Christina waited five minutes after the door to her parents' bedroom clicked shut before gathering the rest of her winter apparel. Warm and almost delirious with joy, she picked up the gift box and went to the window again, which could be opened with a swift jiggle of the latch.

The night air was merciless, almost wolfish, but Christina paid no mind to it. She wriggled out through the narrow window and closed it gingerly behind her; the thud of its latch seemed to finalize the whole thing. Christina was outside. She had snuck out of her house.

She felt a little like cheering. And throwing up. But there was no time for either.

Christina rose to her feet, brushed the ice crystals from the box's shiny red paper, and trotted off into the dark chill of the night. She would have to hurry if she wanted to catch the last bus.

The bus was still at the station when she arrived. She took a moment to gather her composure before climbing onboard; her breath came in harsh, short spurts that crystallized and hung suspended before her like tiny silver Christmas balls. A businessman eyed her nervously from across the station. Once Christina could breathe steadily again, she boarded the bus.

The driver, thankfully, didn't pose any questions about the time or the location of her parents. He merely asked for her bus pass, which she had remembered to tuck into the pocket of her skirt, and asked where she was heading.

"M-Moralton," she said. Something about the word rendered her breathless again.

"Fifteen minutes. Take a seat, kid."

Christina sank into the first seat and tucked her box in her lap; she was asleep within seconds.

.

.

In her dreams, there was a gunshot. It was apocalyptically loud, almost deafening. But it didn't spill any blood: just red Christmas ornaments. She would have rather seen blood.

.

.

She was shaken awake by the businessman. "We're in Moralton," he said.

No sweeter words had ever been spoken to Christina Posabule.

.

.

Even though she had only lived in town for three days, Christina had little trouble recalling where her old neighborhood was.

The houses were familiar the way a recurring dream was familiar. She had warped, faded memories of some; others, adorned in garish yuletide decorations, were unrecognizable. A dusting of white iced every rooftop and front drive. Sharp, stabbing gales whistled through the streets, drawing blood from her exposed cheeks and water from her squinted eyes. For a moment, she feared she would pass his house and continue trampling on until she was forced to give up.

Then she saw it. The little, kitschy sign her own mother had mail-ordered for their front door. This sign, however, read _The Puppingtons._

One mitten-clad hand went to the golden cross again. "Thank you, God," she whispered.

Finding his house was merely one of many problems. For one, Christina had never learned which bedroom was his. Circumstances had prevented her from exploring the place beyond the den and dining room. And even if she knew, she would have to invent some way to reach the second floor without entering the house.

Christina wondered if she had maybe thanked God a little too soon. Her faith, however, was indefatigable and spurred her on. Determined, she circled around the house until she reached the backyard; from ground level, she could spot three second story windows, each belonging to a different bedroom.

A familiar scream of "NO!" ruled out the middle window. She missed Block dearly, as any sibling would, but his absence had recently become less glaring. Christina supposed he was happier at the Puppington house anyway with a boy his age to play with all day.

With the middle window no longer an option, Christina turned her attention to the first. The curtains were only partially drawn and through the bleary slit, she could perceive silhouettes. They were tall, wildly-gesticulating silhouettes and, after a minute or two of debate, she decided it was the bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Puppington. Which left the third window.

She crossed the backyard, wracking her brain for a method of getting to said window without breaking her neck or breaking and entering. It was bitterly cold out now, so cold that her fingers were stiff even through the fleece of her mittens. The result was a fatigued mental state. _Please, God,_ she thought desperately, turning her head up to Heaven. _Give me a sign._

God obliged.

A particularly strong gust of wind snapped the branch off a nearby tree. It hurtled to earth, narrowly missing Christina, and crashed into a snow bank, sending up geysers of white. She didn't mind the near-death experience, though: God had given her a sign. A very tall, oaky sign.

"Thank you, God!"

Climbing trees was not exactly Christina's forte. Her father had forbidden it at a very young age, citing it as "un-ladylike" and "disrespectful towards God's mighty force of nature". Christina didn't necessarily care about the former, but she did make a point to apologize to God for climbing up one of his creations.

This tree was well-endowed with enough sturdy boughs to support her weight. Her first attempts left her clinging to the trunk and begging Jesus for forgiveness, but once she grasped the concept, it became significantly less perilous. It might have been easier had she not tucked the box under one arm. Christina would rather fall and risk being found than drop the present.

One of the branches rang alongside the third window; Christina oppressed herself not to think of where the branch would end up if this wind were any more ferocious. She shimmied awkwardly across it, grimacing as its textured surface grated away at her stockings and started skinning her inner-thighs. But when she finally knocked gently against the glass, all of it—the scrapes, the urgent tingling of her fingers, the chapped cheeks—dissipated as if brushed away by God's hand.

"Orel," she rasped, visage glowing with a jubilancy typically reserved for the most inspiring sermons. "Merry Christmas."

.

.

"One of the people at my church told me. They had heard and were just going on about it. I-I wouldn't have known it was you if they hadn't said 'mayor'."

"Gosh, I wanted to talk to you, but…" His voice fell away.

"I know," she said, taking his hand. "I tried to call you once, but your dad picked up and I panicked."

Orel looked across the bed at her, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of affection. He had never felt anything similar outside of the church or his blankets, but he knew that he liked it. He liked _her_. "I can't believe you came, Christina. I was thinking about you all day."

She flushed and diverted her gaze to her lap. "Well, you came to Inspiration Point. I wanted to return the favor."

They both laughed, then relinquished themselves to a pleasant silence. The two were sharing Orel's bed, him propped against the pillows with his bad leg extended, her at the foot. She had saved him the ordeal of explaining the origin of his injury by assuring him that she had learned the details from her fellow churchgoer. Truthfully, Christina only knew that his father had shot him in the leg on a hunting trip. That lone fact, along with the sight of his atrophied, slightly wonky leg, was probably all she had to know about it.

Her wandering hand chanced upon the box, reminding her of its contents. "Oh! I, um, I brought you a present."

"Golly! Thanks, Christina, but you didn't have to bring me anything. I mean, you're here. That makes this the best Christmas ever," Orel said, smiling warmly.

She could scarcely prevent herself from dissolving into a fit of… well, something. Something about the statement was so genuine, so loving, that it made her feel as if she were on the verge of both hysterical giggling and weeping. All she could manage was a weak sound of indeterminate emotion as she pushed the box into his hands.

Orel unwrapped the paper along its taped seams, careful not to destroy Christina's immaculate handiwork. Inside was a plain cardboard box. Curiosity piqued, he opened it up and looked inside. "Gosh, Christina…"

She had closed her eyes, terrified to witness his reaction. "D-Do you like it?"

He lifted the tiny pad of cotton out of the box, too awed to speak. It was a pair of silver crosses that had been mounted on cufflinks: the sort of cufflinks he used on his Sunday suit. Though several months had passed since the fateful dinner that ignited their families respective hatred for one another, she hadn't forgotten that he had only one cufflink (Shapey had, most likely, swallowed its mate). She had remembered. "Christina… this is the best present I've ever gotten."

Christina opened her eyes. "Really?"

"I love them! And you remembered…"

"Yeah," she said shyly. "I-I wanted it to be special. And I knew you needed some, so… I'm glad you like them."

"They're perfect." Orel couldn't take his eyes off them. They were too special not to be constantly honored with an admiring gaze.

Still, there was another gift to be given. Orel reluctantly set the cotton pad on his nightstand, pushed himself off the bed, and limped over to his closet. His limp, not debilitating but still noticeably pronounced, briefly shadowed her joy. It wasn't just the limp: he was somewhat reserved, not quite as buoyant and sunny as he had been a mere six months ago. The bullet had taken more than his steady gait. It had taken his innocence.

He returned with a package wrapped in green paper. Christina could tell Orel had done the wrapping himself. She thought the uneven edges and wrinkles added character to the parcel. "You didn't have to." She took it and tried to determine its shape.

"Well, I-I didn't make it all myself… I asked my mom to teach me how to knit and she had to do some of it, but… well, I hope you like it."

Christina delicately peeled the paper away, finding he had used several layers (most of which were embalmed in sticky tape). She ripped away a final coat of tape and was greeted by a flash of princess pink. Her heart fluttered so violently that she feared it would escape the prison of her ribcage and take flight.

"I-I didn't exactly know your size, but I think it'll fit okay." He was fidgeting with a sheath of wrapping paper.

She ripped the last trace of tape away and gasped softly. Her vision rippled with a hot wave of tears that she let roll away unfettered: there was no time for restraint.

"I hope you like the color. I think you look real nice in pink."

Christina lifted the pink sweater out of the pile of wrappings, still mute with shock and adoration. Orel watched her gape at it, unable to gauge her reaction and afraid that he had offended her somehow. This left him unprepared for her sudden embrace, which flattened him back against the pillows. Her warm cheek met his own and a curtain of her silky, sandy-brown hair fell over him. That same wave of affection coursed through him, this time so intense that he could only hold her. Words were impossible.

Finally, her lips found his ear. "Thank you, Orel," she whispered. "Thank you."


End file.
